The Birth of Morphing
by AniJen21
Summary: The morphing cube was the most important technology to the Animorphs. Without it, they would have been normal kids instead of unwilling heroes. But how was this technology developed? And who is the man that developed it? Escafil, OCs.
1. Chapter 1

(Do it again.)

The words came too slowly. Too clearly. They'd been getting slower and clearer with each successive failure. His quaternary-level assistants all turned respectful, fearful stalk eyes to him. They knew what his slow, clear tone meant. He hadn't gained his reputation as the most difficult graduate mentor from nothing. He was not kind to these young people. He did not remember his own schooling fondly, and spared no mercy for theirs. Despite this, assistants were never sparse. Students always clambered to work with him. He was, after all, a genius.

Or so they said.

He was getting impatient. On the verge of another outburst. He had to keep his head, or else he'd snap. If he snapped, the project would be stalled. They'd lose time. Nervous, flitting little children would obtain imprecise measurements with shaking hands, setting them back weeks, maybe even months. One might even start crying. That was the last thing he needed.

(We'll do it again,) he repeated, with a more level tone of voice. He turned his stalk eye to Cirell. She rolled her stalk eye playfully and smiled at him.

That softened him. (Are you ready, you bumbling fool?) He asked Tlaxick, the youngest of his students, and thus the least fortunate, stuck with control panel duty. Tlaxick gazed up at him, a smooth veneer of courage behind his eyes.

(Trial 523, ready to engage. Do you give the all-clear?)

(Push the damn button.)

Tlaxick obeyed.

The students all lurched backward as the first of the shrill cries escaped the Kafit Bird's beak. Tlaxick had gone slightly pale.

Besides the screams, nothing had changed. The ray itself was invisible and made no sound. He observed behind the students, who all stood in front of the cylindrical force field containing the specimen. They were supposed to be taking notes, but the screams were even more intense than last time. They enveloped the small crowd, so loud that they ceased being sound and became some new sense entirely.

The Kafit continued to scream. Horrible, ugly cries of utter pain and deformity, unconcerned with social appropriateness or unsettled females. The stench of adrenaline and panic from the unpracticed students filled the room. But he never took his eyes off of the cylindrical force field, the mutating creature before him.

Feathers molted from the creature, like some invisible monster was ripping it to shreds. The beak began to melt into a sort of snout. Six wings slowly, surely became six legs. It shrunk, overcome with pain, still groaning and squaking, on the verge of unconsciousness.

_No, damnit, _he thought, clutching his fingers into a weak fist._ Stay awake! Stay awake, you redundant bird!_

(Morph at 92%...) Tlaxick announced.

(Just a little bit more…)

(94%...consciousness intermittent.)

(Just hold on, you feathered filth!)

(97%...sir, it's not looking-- )

(Shut up, Tlaxick!)

(99%, and I don't think…wait. Wait a second.)

Tlaxick gripped the edges of the computer with stiff hands.

(What is it, you insufferable child?)

(100%, sir. We've just completed our first successful inter-species morph.)

A few of the students gasped in surprise, shock. Expectation that they might actually see happiness from their professor. Then they turned their stalk eyes around to see his reaction.

(Did the specimen survive?)

The stalk eyes turned back around. In the cylinder was a heaving, unconscious djabala that seemed damaged beyond repair. But it was alive.

(Yes, sir. Yes. It survived.)

He gave no other reaction than a stiff shrug, meant to repress the concentrated burst of joy and elation that exploded within him. He thought he'd succeeded in keeping it from his students. However, the children before him all giggled. Their professor had just cracked.

(Very well,) he covered quickly. (Everyone, reconvene here at the same time tomorrow. This only means our work has become exponentially more difficult, and I expect all of your personal lives to suffer tremendously as a result.)

That killed their spirits. Cirell shook her stalk eyes almost motionlessly.

(Cirell, if you could meet me in my office, please.)

(Don't let a breakthrough like this disrupt your sensitivity with me,) she huffed privately.

(Now?)

She stepped forward, through the throng of confused students, and sauntered ahead of him into his office, watching him with glittering silver eyes all the way in.

He maintained his stiff austerity until he was fully enclosed by his expansive, domed office, by the obscuring force field door, by the soft glow of the holographic, midnight sky. He waited until she pressed the inner lock, muting any sounds and thought-speech they made from outside ears and minds.

They were deep within the underbelly of the Scientific Institute for Advanced Technologies. One of the most secret, innermost chambers. Thousands of meters underground. He didn't remind himself of that fact, of course. No Andalite enjoys the thought of being buried under thousands of tons of suffocating soil and water. But the holograms were thankfully convincing. No amount of intellectual certainty could overcome the primal comfort his body felt, being "outdoors." It was a suitable environment, providing both the benefits of freedom and privacy.

He watched Cirell for a few minutes. If not for her, he would have given up this entire venture weeks ago. He watched her as her hips swayed dangerously, exaggeratedly. He watched as she beckoned him with a single smile and twitch of her tail.

Then he descended.

(Can you believe it?) he sighed, almost giddy, overcome with the excitement of success and the immediacy of his carnal urges. (We actually did it. Successfully. We actually--)

(Get your finger out of my ear.)

(Sorry,) he mumbled, removing his hand from the side of her head, and concentrating now on her neck, her chest, her smooth, delicate, young skin.

(Slow down! You're taking all of the fun out of this.)

(My life's work, Cirell, it's not meaningless! We successfully disrupted and mutated one biological individual into another. And not even another individual! An entirely different _species_. Do you understand the implications? Don't you see what this--)

Cirell grabbed both of his hands weakly, but with dominance. He stopped and stared down at her.

(Just because you've realized your childhood ambition doesn't mean you get to act like a child, Escafil.)

He felt embarrassed. He bowed his head toward her and sighed.

(You're right. I apologize.)

(Now,) Cirell whispered, releasing his hands and moving them to his chest, up his neck, to that wonderful, sensitive corner of his jaws that she knew so well. (It's been entirely too long a day. And you're right, we still have a lot of work to do. A successful morph is meaningless if the process is too painful for any sane Andalite to use it. And we don't even know if we can get it to change back without killing it. Not to mention we haven't quite figured out these time limits.)

Escafil closed his eyes, losing himself in the pleasure of her precise, intimate kiss. But suddenly, it ended. He opened his eyes. Cirell was making her way toward the door.

(That's it?) He blurted.

(I need to get home, Escafil. And I'm quite sure your wife is wondering where you've been for the last three days.)

Escafil was speechless. Incredulous. He stared at her like she'd just said the world was going to end.

(Besides, I find you have more breakthroughs when all that sexual energy flows unreleased throughout your body. Better to not siphon blood from the brain for more indulgent, less productive ventures, don't you think?)

(Oh, you don't know how much I want to terminate you right now.)

(Probably the best idea. Without me to distract you, I fully expect a working Escafil Device in less than a month.)

("Escafil Device," huh?)

(Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?)

Cirell left. Escafil followed her after a few minutes. Most of the students had departed, but Tlaxick was still examining readouts from the computer.

(Go home, Tlaxick,) Escafil said to the ambitious young boy.

(Sir, I've been going over these computer scans, and-- )

(I said go home. There will be plenty of time for your unabashed obsequiousness tomorrow.)

Tlaxick took the insult in stride. (Yes, sir. I'll see you tomorrow.)

Escafil examined the heaving djabala in its test tube. It was completely overcome with pain, still quivering like it was electric. But it was alive.

(Stay here until I get back,) he said to it. (I'll make it hurt less next time.)

* * *

**A/N: This story is not over, but I don't know how often/if I'm going to update it. There's more story to tell, obviously, but it's all very fuzzy right now. I just wanted some practice writing soft sci-fi, so...here we go. But as I started, I got intrigued by this character we only ever knew by name. And Andalite society before the war would be an interesting thing to investigate...hmm, it sounds like I just talked myself into it.**

**Even though I don't really know what this is.  
**

**Anyway, let me know what you think!  
**


	2. Chapter 2

It took about an hour for Escafil to get out of the compound. Entering through security checkpoints was strangely easier than leaving through them. It was a great inconvenience, often encouraging him to stay inside for days rather than take the time to leave. It would have been nice to bring his work home with him, but he understood why he couldn't. He didn't want to imagine the consequences of the wrong person getting hold of the morphing technology.

It was late in the morning when he arrived home. His wife, Brysist, was just getting ready to leave.

(Good morning, love,) he said to her.

(I can't talk, Escafil, I'll have to sprint to make it to my meeting with the institute's board, and then I have a fundraiser later this evening for improving the schools in the polar regions.)

He watched her prepare to leave, scuffing her hooves on the ground for last-minute energy, combing through the fur on her abdomen and foreflanks in a last-ditch effort to look presentable. He stepped over carefully and helped her with her back, the parts too far for her to reach. His fingers gently ran through her fur.

(What are you doing?) She asked.

(Did you hear?)

(Hear what?)

(We had a breakthrough last night.)

(Oh? Good, the military has been calling incessantly with the status of your improved Shredder focusing lenses. This might actually earn us the credits to take our venture public, you know.)

(I gave up the focusing lenses, Brysist.)

He noticed that her shoulders had relaxed at his touch, but she stiffened and swiveled an angry stalk eye to meet his gaze. (Why in the name of Elder would you do that?)

(Because this morphing technology is real.)

Brysist laughed that horrible, condescending, judgmental laugh. (Morphing technology?) She scoffed. (You're still clinging to that ridiculous belief?)

(It worked, Brysist. It's not just a belief anymore.)

(Even if you get it to work, what good could it possibly do? At best, it's a mediocre tool for espionage work, which we don't need since all of our enemies are locked in truces with us, and at worst, what? It's fun, new entertainment. Perhaps more invigorating than cloud art, but what more than that? I've been getting calls, Escafil, from the funding board. They're talking about cutting your resources. They think your obsession is just as ridiculous as I do.)

She was being cruel, but he continued to comb through her hair, stepping closer to her, siddling up next to her, sending his hands over warm curves that he hadn't touched in weeks. There was a point that the thought of not touching her would have been devastating. At one point, he loved her because she was beautiful and funny and smart. He married her, and lived with her in saturated happiness for a couple of years. Then they tried to have children. For a while, it was still more about their mutual affection than the biological output they both wanted. Then it slowly became an obsession. Their love became only a means to an end. The need to procreate drove them both into distant, cold corners. Doctors said to keep trying, but nothing worked. So they gave up, got old, and stayed married only out of convenience and familiarity.

But his touch on her waist was not just convenient and familiar. He could feel shivers of pleasure shoot through her, and he could feel the same in him.

(We had a successful trial, Brysist. To give up now and admit failure just after a success? What kind of coward would do that?)

Brysist gasped as Escafil put the smallest amount of spontaneous pressure on the sensitive small of her back. She reached up instinctively with a hand and kissed the side of his face.

They continued in silence for a while until Brysist finally glanced outside at the position of the sun.

(I'm late,) she said, voice still soaked with pleasure but drying quickly. (I'm late, you distracting fool. If I fail to receive funding for landscaping the music district, I'm telling them it's all your fault.)

Escafil shamefully removed his hands from his wife's back and stepped away. She gave a shake through her body, erasing the long tracks that his fingers left through her fur.

(Brysist,) he said softly.

(What?)

(I love you, you know.)

She turned a stalk eye back to him, and for a moment, he saw the turmoil, anger, and spite within. As ugly as they were to see, he knew they were at least better than apathy.

She left without responding.

Escafil waited restlessly within his scoop for a few hours, unable to stop thinking about the breakthrough and what steps he needed to take from here. He walked around for a while, arranging what few belongings they had, cleaning the molted fur and dust. He made the scoop livable again, even though no one really lived there. He felt a pang of regret for the life he'd wanted, filled with children and messiness and unpredictability, but he forgot about it. He had his work. And it was time to return.

When he got back to the Institute, he was surprised to find that most of his staff was not on time. He groaned inwardly, knowing that in order to maintain his reputation he would need to chastise them very loudly and very brutally. Cirell was busy cross-referencing data from different observational tools, and Tlaxick was pacing nervously.

Escafil suddenly got a very bad feeling. (What is going on?) He asked.

As if it were rehearsed, the door to their dome slid open and three men walked through. Two were strangers, strapped with weapons. Warriors. Perhaps Princes. He didn't really care. But one he recognized. It was Zydrin, the president of the institute. He felt himself go a little pale. The presidency was a very respected position, mainly because it was the worst job possible. A meeting with the president never ended well.

Escafil slowly stepped forward, trying to maintain his air of confidence and superiority, which wasn't easy, considering he was confronting his boss. The other two men stayed back as Zydrin came forward to greet him.

(Escafil, I see you're keeping our resources busy,) he said with too bright a voice. Escafil smiled politely.

(I assume you heard about our breakthrough,) he said. (Last night we completed the first successful inter-species morph, and the specimen survived.)

(Not through the afternoon,) Tlaxick said. Escafil turned a stalk eye to him that would have been cooler if it was on fire.

(Yes, we heard. The fact that we heard is the only reason you're still here.)

(I beg your pardon?)

(You had a breakthrough. Breakthroughs are nice words, aren't they? They're nice words to publish in monthly periodicals, nice words to send to news outlets. They make our institute relevant for however short a time. Most people don't bother reading what the breakthrough was about, but the fact that we've had one maintains their confidence in us. We may receive more donations, or at least less complaints about the frivolity with which our population's taxes are spent. So yes. You had a breakthrough. That means you get to stay.)

(Where is my staff?)

(They've been reassigned, Escafil.)

(To where?) He said shrilly, on the verge of another outburst.

(Weapons research.)

(I thought we had categorized the morphing technology as "weapons research.")

(Very well. Different weapons research.)

(Did my wife speak with you?)

It was a risky question. No Andalite male likes to admit that their wife has more control over their work than they do, despite the fact that, as long as she does not have a career of her own, it is very often true.

(Brysist simply mentioned that research with your improved Shredder lenses was going well until you shifted your focus. We find that she made an excellent point.)

Escafil seethed, looking at Cirell, realizing that now, for the first moment in their affair, he did not feel guilty about betraying his wife.

(You can keep your personal assistant, and this boy refuses to leave. So, take them. Continue your research. Now with that breakthrough, perhaps things will move more swiftly for you.)

(Do you intend to lock me in this cave for the rest of my life?)

(Oh, of course not. This is far too large a workspace for you. You'll be moving into B-Mu-245. Come, gentleman.) Zydrin turned to leave.

(Wait,) one of the warriors said. (I would like a demonstration of this technology.)

(Alloran,) the other said. (My apologies, your honor. Our young warrior here often forgets when to temper his speech.)

(I don't think you're using your imagination, sir,) the young warrior said. (How much can improved lenses really help our defenses? But this…) He stepped forward and looked at Escafil. (Can you morph into anything?)

(Theoretically,) Escafil sighed, forgetting to always appease his benefactors, no matter how much he had to lie. (Yes. Anything with DNA,) he added.

(There is a lot of DNA in the galaxy,) Alloran said. (A lot of frightening DNA.)

The older warrior looked among all of the Andalites before him, cradling his chin in his hand. (Perhaps you're right, Warrior. Zydrin, perhaps we should reconsider the portion of our plan of which we did not inform Escafil.)

(And what portion was that?) Escafil demanded

(Zydrin was going to throw you out in two months. Send you back to, what was it, "teaching ungrateful brats about covalence and quantum physics?" But perhaps we should let him stay. This weapon may be more valuable than any other. A good general denies no solution, no matter how ridiculous or useless it may at first seem.)

Zydrin's face had flushed in embarrassment and rage. It wasn't that he disliked Escafil, or that he was particularly power-hungry or averse to contradiction. Research simply never got along with military. Military always had a way of twisting scientific discoveries into destructive applications rather than the more peaceful, helpful ones that scientists always dreamed of. And despite the fact that Escafil should have felt mutual embarrassment and rage for Zydrin in solidarity, he couldn't help but smile that his career was not unceremoniously terminated.

(Fine. Escafil can stay. And keep the cave. I know how much you love it here.) He eyed Escafil for a suspicious moment, turning a stalk eye in the direction of Cirell. Escafil kept his head and smiled politely back.

Zydrin turned on his hooves and stormed out of the room.

The big War-Prince left, but Alloran stayed behind for a moment. (I'm not familiar with the politics of scientific research, but if you're going to make this work, I suggest you do it sooner rather than later,) he said to Escafil. (The minute the hype from your breakthrough wears off, I expect Zydrin to follow through on his plans to terminate you.)

(Good to see that all skills of observation are not lost on the military,) Escafil snapped. Alloran smiled.

(It's likewise good to see that all sense of contention is not lost on you scientists,) Alloran smiled, following his superior.

Escafil suddenly realized that despite the way it had begun, today had not been a good day. Cirell walked over and took his hand.

(It's not like those students did anything but cower in fear and distract us anyway,) she comforted. (We'll be all right.)

He looked down at her and smiled. (I'm unconcerned with how all right we'll be,) he said. (I am only concerned with the fact that we are standing here idly when there is work to be done.)

(Then let's get to it,) Tlaxick said with a bright smile.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thanks to all my reviewers! I didn't get a chance to thank you all personally, but please know that I love the feedback and I'm glad you guys are enjoying the story. This chapter is more of a chance for me to play with some soft sci-fi, so it might be a little tedious, but hopefully it's interesting.**

**Thanks again!**

* * *

The work was much more difficult with twelve of his assistants gone. That came as no surprise. What did come as a surprise was how quickly the trio learned to overcome the difficulties of being understaffed. Cirell, who had previously only compiled data and wrote daily progress reports, easily learned all of the other tasks and managed her time effectively. Tlaxick abandoned all pride and accepted all of the inglorious chores—cleaning the Kafit cages and equipment, taking invasive, physical measurements of the specimens, and generally being the punching bag upon which Escafil could unleash.

(You bumbling fool, do you think I don't see the temperature reading?)

(Of course, sir, I simply thought I should point out--)

(What, your own incompetence?)

(Yes, sir.)

The rhythms developed quickly and allowed them to concentrate on their work.

Fortunately, replicating the successful trial was not difficult. It had been a mere challenge of understanding what concentration of morphing energy the body responded to, and how much would damage it beyond repair. The trick happened to lie in gravitons—the greater the concentrations of gravitons in the morphing field, the likelier the specimen was to survive.

Gravitons were but one element of the equations that Escafil did not understand. In fact, there was very little about the theoretical equations that Escafil understood. He'd never admit this, of course, but the math was unconventional. Even his slightly insane colleague, a string theorist, thought so. The involvement of Zero-space, the transfer of excess energy to anti-energy, the very sub-molecular physics that allowed recomposition…he didn't blame people for thinking he was a crackpot. It was funny math. But it was, apparently, practical.

(All right, Tlaxick. Prep for Trial 16, and we'll get underway.)

(Wait, Escafil,) Cirell said, gazing at three different computer read-outs, using all of her vision.

(We're making good time, Cirell, let's waste as little of it as we can.)

(I think I've just realized something.)

(What?)

(You're focused on gaining enough samples to make your breakthrough statistically significant, but there are a lot of problems we have to solve beyond that.)

(Okay,) he said, unsure where she was headed.

(I think we've been going about this the wrong way.)

(And how is that?)

Cirell kept a stalk eye on one hovering read-out, but headed over to the Kafit cage.

(They're dying because it hurts, Escafil. Pain is simply electric impulses perceived by the brain,) she began. (We know the technology is safe. We know we can get one viable organism to change into another viable organism. They should be able to survive, if not for the pain.)

(There's no proof of that,) Escafil huffed. (We don't know that the resulting morphs are viable. How else can you explain their incessant mortality?)

(I think they're dying because of the trauma, Escafil, not because the morphs are inviable.)

(You're speculating,) Tlaxick said, and Escafil almost yelled at him for saying exactly what he was going to say. (You can't assume that.)

(I'm not speculating or assuming, I'm _hypothesizing_. What a couple of scientists.)

(So what, you think we should waste precious time and resources to test your hypothesis?) Escafil asked.

(Oh dear no, not on the naïve little assistant's hypothesis. Of course I do, you dolt.)

Escafil couldn't help but smile. (I don't know, Cirell. We need these subjects to make our sample size statistically significant. That has to happen regardless of the reasons for their death.)

(I agree, but we also need to solve this problem at some point, don't we?)

(And how do you suggest we solve it?)

Cirell gazed at the read-out again for a while before answering. (We've already decided that we can't control the way the morphs happen,) she said. (There are too many variables, too many cellular and even molecular changes. It would take forever to program a specific route for the morph to take. That is something we realized at the beginning.)

(You don't need to review the whole process,) Tlaxick huffed.

(We can't program the whole thing. But we certainly can program a beginning and end point.)

(And what should those be?) Escafil asked.

(The first step should be to turn off the pain receptors in the brain. And the final step should be to turn them back on.)

Escafil narrowed his eyes, considering. Was there one gene that controlled pain reception in every organism comprised of DNA? If not, was there a way to program the technology to deactivate the genes in the correct order?

(See what you can do, Cirell. The boy and I will continue filling up our sample quota.)

The following morning, Cirell had a working, improved morphing beam.

They tried it. As it morphed, the Kafit bird didn't make a sound.

(Don't all thank me at once,) she said, once the morphed djabala started rooting around on the ground for food.

Escafil was astounded. He stepped over to the cylinder and powered down the force field. The djabala waddled out, just like a djabala would.

(Look at it,) he marveled. (Look at how it behaves.)

(It's a djabala,) Tlaxick said hesitantly.

(Exactly,) Escafil responded. Tlaxick seemed surprised that Escafil did not insult him.

(Yes,) Cirell said. (Behaviorally. It doesn't behave like a Kafit bird. It behaves like a djabala.)

(Why wouldn't it?) Tlaxick asked. (It has a djabala's brain.)

(Yes, but experientially, it is a Kafit bird. It should want to fly, it should be afraid that I am so close to it, but it is not. It _is _a djabala.)

Tlaxick considered this for a moment. (This may have uncomfortable implications,) he said.

(How so?) Cirell asked.

(You're saying that a morph is not only physical. It's instinctual. You get not only the form of the morph, but its evolutionary instincts and drives, correct?)

(Ah,) Escafil said. (I see.)

(The Council will never approve of this technology,) Cirell huffed. (They'd use their overworked "inappropriate for future generations" stamp and cut our funding immediately. If a repressed Andalite can become a djabala and inherit its sex drive...)

(Why wouldn't an Andalite be able to repress a djabala's sex drive any less successfully than he would his own?) Escafil asked.

(You're kidding, right? Put a male and female djabala anywhere near each other and they'll start mating.) Cirell said. Escafil and Cirell looked at each other. The next experiment was clear.

(Tlaxick!) Both Escafil and Cirell snapped. They smiled at each other, and Cirell allowed Escafil to continue. (Retrieve a male djabala.)

He did. Cirell adjusted the recording device. As soon as Tlaxick reentered the room, the male Kafit bird/female djabala rooting on the ground in front of them began preparing itself to mate.

(Well, that answers that question,) Tlaxick said and turned around to replace the djabala.

Escafil prepared to explode, but it was Cirell who spoke. (Tlaxick, if you want to be a scientist, you have to accept the more uncomfortable aspects of the work. Unfasten the cage.)

It didn't make any of them comfortable. As members of the more liberal scientific community, the three of them had grown to accept their gross, natural urges, but that did not mean the societal implications did not affect them too. Sex was an abhorred thing among Andalite society, not because it was particularly unenjoyable, but because their intellectual pride and arrogance did not jibe with the animalistic need to procreate. Children were conceived under inflexible rituals, and any born without a deliberate wish flower were rare. Children born out of wedlock were entirely abominable. The fact that Escafil and Cirell were engaged in an illicit affair was enough to get them both executed. He'd assumed that was part of the allure, at least for her. But now, not only did they have to witness a direct sexual act, but they had to accept its perversion—this was not just a sexual pair of a lesser species. This was technically a male Kafit bird and a male djabala.

Tlaxick made a face and opened the cage.

The djabala shot out of its cell and headed straight for the female. Within seconds they were mid-coitus.

(This is a problem,) Cirell groaned, looking away.

(We'll need to find some way to repress sexual urges. Or at least, I don't know, downplay them.)

(How?) Tlaxick asked.

Escafil shook his stalk eyes. (We could influence hormone production, phermones…we'd need to find some sort of inhibitor…)

(Sex isn't the only instinct. What about hunger? What about fear? What about the need to protect territory? There are millions of organisms on our planet alone, each with differing sets of instincts, and millions of planets in the galaxy we have yet to explore. If we want to this technology to work for all of them, we're going to need to make some sweeping decisions about inhibiting instincts right now.)

Escafil looked down at Cirell, sparing a stalk eye for the djabalas. They were finished, but it wouldn't be long before they began again.

(Why do you look so upset?) He asked her privately. (We've invented morphing technology. From here on out, it's all just details.)

(Tedious details,) she said, a stern look in her eyes. Escafil smiled and she smiled back.

(All right Tlaxick, separate those two. Put the test subject in a cage, it will be interesting to see if she's fertile.)

(Sir?) Tlaxick asked, a nauseated look on his face.

(Just smack him aside with your tail.)

Tlaxick quickly did as he was asked, and before long, put another Kafit bird in the cylinder.

(Time to begin Trial 42,) Escafil said.


	4. Chapter 4

It had been two weeks since their team had been stripped. Three? Escafil couldn't say for sure. The three intrepid scientists put in 18-hour days, taking 12-hour breaks, completely de-synchronizing their sleep patters from normal circadian rhythms. Escafil reprogrammed the replica sky holograms in the cavern to accommodate them, but it didn't take long for all of them to become extremely edgy and a little loopy.

(Do we have any more _illsipar_ root?) Cirell sighed, rubbing her eye with her fist, like a child.

(Tlaxick, can you please go procure some more?) Escafil asked.

(I just went a couple of hours ago.)

(A couple of hours and three days ago,) Cirell corrected.

(Really? I feel like I just got back.)

(Really.)

(All right,) he said, heading out. (When's the last time I've been in this hallway?)

Cirell was standing next to Escafil at their work station, and as soon as Tlaxick was out of sight, she wound her tail around his.

(I'm stiff all over,) she sighed. (I haven't slept in days.)

(Why not?) Escafil asked, turning her to face him, holding her close against his front with his arms draped weakly behind her back.

(I don't know. Every time I start to drift off, I'll get that rush of excitement that you get when you have a breakthrough, you know? I'll feel like I have a solution to a problem, but then I can't remember the solution, or even what problem it solved.)

(If you're bringing your work home with you to such a degree, perhaps that means it's time for a promotion.)

Cirell turned a silver stalk eye, too exhausted to self-doubt, up to Escafil. (Really? Because I don't think I've been bringing my work home with me nearly enough.)

Escafil hadn't slept much either. And he wasn't very good at coy flirtation. But he was alert enough to get her meaning.

(I'll meet you at your scoop in two hours,) he whispered to her. (It's night out now, so we won't be seen.)

(What about Tlaxick?)

(Hopefully he won't ruin too much we've done today.)

Cirell gave him a warm, tired smile, a soft, deep kiss, and obeyed his request.

Escafil found himself nervous. He knew where Cirell lived, and he'd been to her scoop before, but never in such a personal capacity. She'd been his student for almost a decade, and he could still remember the first time she'd invited him to her home. It was to pick up an assignment he'd given her when she was still a tertiary-level student, some extra credit that he'd assigned her only because it gave him the excuse to see her outside of a classroom setting. There'd been something strange and intriguing about her, even when she was so young, more than just her scientific brilliance or unconventional beauty. He was cynical enough, at first, to believe it was simply a retaliation against the frigidity of his relationship with his wife, but he'd grown to believe that he had something real with Cirell. Something that would be very difficult and damaging to give up.

He stood for an idle moment at his work station, thumbing the corner of his jaw, imagining the imminent encounter. Suddenly, a crash at the door engaged his primitive reflexes, and his tail rose high as his fur puffed out on end.

(Sorry!) Tlaxick cried suddenly, dropping containers of _illsipar_ root all over the floor. Escafil rushed over to help him. And chastise him.

(Clumsy fool,) Escafil said, though his voice betrayed a hint of tenderness for his loyal and abused assistant.

(Oh no, sir, please don't-- )

But Escafil caught a glimpse of what Tlaxick had attempted to hide.

(What are you doing?) He asked, picking up small bottles of vitamins that Tlaxick had attempted to conceal beneath the _illsipar_.

(I…sir, I'm sorry, just-- )

(Tlaxick, just tell me what you're doing.)

Tlaxick looked down, kept his stalk eyes engaged with something behind him. (They're for my wife.)

(Wife?) Escafil asked.

(She's expecting.)

Escafil was astounded. (How old are you?)

(Old enough, _sir_,) Tlaxick said defensively. Escafil relented for a moment, still dazed by the revelation.

(You could have asked me to requisition the vitamins for you. You didn't need to dishonor yourself by stealing them.)

Tlaxick almost looked amused. (Really?)

Escafil paused. Surprise had overcome him, but it was quickly followed by rage and envy. _No_, he realized. If Tlaxick had asked him for help, he would have refused.

But what could he do? Even he was not without compassion. He respected the hard-edged look in the boy's eyes—despite getting caught, he was not going to give up without a fight. Protecting his mate, his family. They were respectable qualities. And for a moment, behind all the rage from being exploited by an employee and envy of the boy who'd worked so little to obtain what he'd wanted so dearly, Escafil felt pity. Tlaxick's wife was pregnant, and he spent most of his time beneath the earth with two people who could not have cared less. He thought he would regret what he was about to say, but what he'd regret even more was not saying it.

(Take the vitamins,) Escafil said. (I'll say they were for me. And take a few days off. Spend them with your wife. Enjoy these last moments before you inherit the responsibilities of parenthood.)

Tlaxick looked shocked. A bottle of the vitamins fell out of his hands.

(But sir, you need me here to keep the cages clean, to calibrate the instruments, to-- )

(I was an assistant once too, Tlaxick. I remember how to do those things.)

Tlaxick eyed him suspiciously. (You're not just going to change the locks once I leave, are you?)

Escafil wanted to smile, but could only manage a grimace. (Go home, Tlaxick.)

Tlaxick kneeled down and picked up the bottle of vitamins, never taking his eyes off of Escafil. Then he slowly walked from the lab, watching him with a stalk eye until he was out of sight.

Escafil didn't wait long before reuniting with Cirell. All the same, he was bothered. He thought he'd overcome that heartache, but the desire for offspring, for a son or daughter to call his own, had only been denied. And now, reinvigorated by this random encounter, Escafil wondered what life would be like with a true family.

Cirell had taken the time to feminize herself as much as she could. It was difficult. Improper air circulation in the underground laboratory and the lack of sleep sapped away much of her attractiveness, but her skin still glowed youthfully in the moonlight and that look of desire and tenacity in her sparkling eyes could have overcome any blemish or irregularity. Escafil greeted her with a kiss and headed into the hidden depths of her scoop.

They were both tired, so the tryst moved slowly. Escafil explored the tense, sensitive muscles of her lower back, and Cirell reciprocated with warm kisses and the pressure of her sharp hipbones in his abdomen. Despite the expertise with which she moved, Escafil was still distracted.

(Tlaxick has a wife, you know,) he said to the girl.

(Oh?)

(She's pregnant.)

(How interesting,) she sighed, clearly not paying attention.

(That boy is less than half my age and he's already starting a family.)

(Shut up, Escafil.)

(Cirell,) he said, pulling away from her, halting their progress by clutching both of her hands, (what do you think about children? Do you want any?)

Cirell looked annoyed, but knew she wouldn't get her way until she indulged him. (I don't know. I haven't thought much about it.)

(I think you'd make an excellent mother.)

(Well you also think I'd make an excellent scientist, and I don't think I'd have the energy to do both excellently.)

(Of course you would. You just have to organize your time.)

(And you're the expert on this, of course?) She said with a scoff. But then she frowned. (I'm sorry, that was insensitive.)

Escafil let go of her hands. (Yes, it was.)

Cirell sighed and shrugged. (I suppose I want them someday,) she said. (I don't know when.)

Escafil watched her carefully for a few moments before responding. (What about with me?)

(Of course, Escafil. I've always wanted to be executed.)

Escafil shook his stalk eyes. (There could be a way.)

Cirell's amused expression slowly shifted to concern. (We've been working very hard,) she said. (You're just a little tender. We should get some rest. You'll feel better tomorrow.) She took his hand and ran it behind her back. (Of course, not until you finish with me.)

But Escafil was no longer in the mood. He kissed her once more and told her he was too tired to continue. She was not happy, but she understood.

(Perhaps the blessings you received were not the ones you wanted,) she said to him softly, resting her head against his shoulder. (That does not mean that they have no purpose. That does not mean what you produce is not significant.)

(A bumbling fool can do what I cannot,) he sighed.

(That craft is unrefined,) she said with a yawn. (Children have been born since the beginning of time. Our idiotic ancestors did it. It's not unique, Escafil. It's ordinary. But what you do is not ordinary. It's revolutionary. Others can create life, but it is rigid and inflexible. Look at what we're doing. We can manipulate life. Change it. Heal it. Isn't what we're doing at least as important as procreation?)

Escafil clutched her hand, indicating her comfort was acceptable. But he was not entirely convinced.

Cirell slept soundly. He was glad that she caught up on relaxation a bit, but he was too restless to find sleep. She was right. Their technology would come to fruition. Any kinks they worked out only created new problems, but Escafil had been a research scientist long enough to know that these seemingly infinite roads of trial and error came to an end eventually. But it did not fulfill him like she suggested it should. Despite his successes, Escafil felt incomplete.

And he wondered if there was anyway to remedy it.


	5. Chapter 5

Zydrin had been wrong.

Very, very wrong.

The story about Escafil's breakthrough had been published about a month after the fact. For the first few days, there was no real reaction. He heard his name mentioned a couple of times on the thought-speech intra-university news station, some of his colleagues went out of their way to congratulate him. But very suddenly and very unexpectedly, everything around him had blown up.

Escafil stood, dumbfounded, alongside his superficially proud wife, as the media specialists from the intelligence grid filmed him with a holographic recorder. Three reporters stood before him, shouting questions so quickly that he could barely comprehend or separate them.

(Was the recent discovery of weak points in the barrier between normal space and Zero-Space an inspiration to your cause?)

(Did you predict the impact your invention would have on the medical community?)

(How long until this technology is ready for mass consumption?)

They wouldn't shut up long enough for him to answer, so he assumed they were rhetorical. He let them jabber, clutching his wife's hand tightly, like he was a child, and every so often glanced at Zydrin, a look that said "please let me go back to my lab."

Zydrin smiled, enjoying himself, but eventually batted the reporters away. (All right, all right. Thank you for coming down today, we always love seeing members of the media on our campus. You got the press packages, you have everything you need. Why don't you let our brilliant Escafil get back to his work now?)

Escafil clutched Brysist's hand once again, and she pulled it away.

(Thank you for coming down here,) he said to her.

(Anything, my love.)

He turned a stalk eye to her, infuriated by her overt sarcasm. (It must be so difficult to leave the house when you get to be the center of attention. I know how horrible it is for you.)

To his surprise, she smiled back. (Yes, it's nice to be in the center when the attention is positive. For once.)

(I do it only to please you, love,) Escafil sighed, irritated.

Brysist didn't respond. Escafil looked down at her and saw that she was staring off into a corner. A corner where Cirell was working at a computer console, gazing guiltily back.

(Yes,) Brysist said. (It's all for me.)

Escafil felt a pointless shudder of fear, and watched as his wife climbed down the short iridescent platform that the journalists had brought, pausing as she shifted her arthritic back leg down from the ledge. She glanced back at him one last time, eye filled with a vague irritability and vulnerability, and left the compound.

(I suppose congratulations are in order,) Zydrin said once he was alone with Escafil and his two assistants. (I didn't realize the technology had such varied potential applications.)

(No,) Escafil said as Cirell helped him down. (Neither did I.)

(What Escafil means to say is that we hadn't quite reached that phase in our-- )

(I meant what I said, Cirell,) Escafil snapped, and Cirell gazed back coolly.

Zydrin's eyes passed between the pair before he continued. (I suppose we should be happy an entire industry has chosen to support your work,) he said. (You don't need to worry about getting fired anymore, Escafil. And, in fact, if you want your assistants back, you've got the budget for them now.)

(They're unnecessary,) he snapped. (We work much more efficiently as a trio.)

Escafil couldn't help but notice Tlaxick step forward in a near attempt to contradict him, and smiled to himself a little. It would only be humane to give Tlaxick a hand with feeding, watering, and cleaning up after the test subjects. But Escafil was not feeling particularly humane at that moment.

(Very well,) Zydrin said. (How close are you to achieving a working device?)

(Weeks, now. Perhaps days. I want to perform an Andalite test before the quarter is up.)

(And who shall be the lucky pioneer to embark on that journey?)

Escafil waved his stalk eyes. (It would make the most sense if it was me, wouldn't it?)

(Like Porgillan before you, leading the first voyage through Zero-Space,) Zydrin laughed, though Escafil knew it was only because their pre-eminent morphing scholar performing a successful morph himself would bring considerable attention to them in the scientific community. (Yes, Escafil. Let me know when you plan to do that.)

Escafil nodded, though he felt like he wouldn't obey that request.

Zydrin left them shortly after that. Escafil suddenly realized his hearts were pounding and he felt faint.

(Are you all right?) Cirell asked, pressing her hands against his chest. They had lost most of their discretion in front of Tlaxick. He didn't seem to mind.

(I preferred them apathetic,) he said. (In fact, I preferred them against the idea. Now that they believe in it, I…) he clutched the side of the console and almost fell to his knees.

(Just like you, to lose confidence right when you begin to succeed,) Cirell hissed, grabbing him beneath the arm and trying to keep him on his hooves. Tlaxick didn't seem quite sure what to do.

(So what exactly clued the medical community into our work, anyway?)

(That stupid article,) Escafil said between hyperventilating breaths. (That breakthrough, the first successful morph…a blurb, Cirell, a stupid sentence you left in the report! "The morphing process uses DNA from another specimen to craft a new body." Why would you say that?)

Cirell laughed. (If blaming this on me is going to calm you down, fine, but I prefer calling it "credit" instead of "blame," all right?)

She put her hand on the base of his skull, at the back, and for some reason, it calmed him down. He caught his breath, wiped the sweat from his brow.

(It's really stupid that we didn't think of it ourselves,) Cirell said once he stood up straight. (We haven't demorphed anything yet. That's probably why.)

(I don't even believe it will work,) Escafil said. (That's the thing. Why would the base form be any different after a morph? Limbs won't be regrown, injuries won't be healed, organs can't be contrived from nothing. The mass—the mass has to come from our space, from real space. You can't make something from nothing.)

(We've morphed djabalas to kafits, and kafits to djabalas,) Tlaxick pointed out. (They don't weigh the same. The morphs still worked. Where does the mass come from, when a smaller base form morphs into something larger?)

Escafil felt another surge of panic. (I don't know.)

(Just because we can't perceive the existence of anything in Zero Space doesn't mean that nothing's there,) Cirell argued. (Maybe the process converts anti-matter to matter, just like it converts anti-energy to energy.)

(The theorems and formulae should have indicated that!)

(Maybe they did,) Tlaxick said. (I looked at some of them. There were a few coefficients and variables you couldn't identify. A few numbers seemingly without purpose, but they were necessary for the equations to equalize, correct?)

(I should know my own formulae. I can't believe this is happening.)

(Why?) Cirell asked.

(This isn't science. Science is about prediction, about testing predictions, not about striking your tail forward in the dark and hoping something sticks!)

He felt Cirell clutch the tendons at the back of his neck again. (Calm down, you old fool. If it doesn't work, it doesn't work. The medical community will recover. That is their sole purpose, isn't it?)

(We'll just need to test it,) Tlaxick said slowly. (Dismember a djabala, see if its legs grow back after it morphs.)

Escafil nodded. (Yes. Good, Tlaxick. Set it up.)

Tlaxick seemed disconcerted, but headed off to get a specimen.

(It's amazing, isn't it?) Cirell sighed. (The thought that we can contrive organic matter from nothing.)

(It will take years of programming before we can make hearts and kidneys,) Escafil said with a forlorn tone, though he'd calmed down.

(Well, of course,) Cirell laughed. (But even the thought of it is amazing. I wonder what kinds of ailments can be cured just from morphing alone?)

(The doctors on the panel of the medical school did a report. Most cancers, all infectious pathogens. Blood pressure, insulin resistance, cholesterol, brain wave activity, stomach acid, almost everything can all be regulated through a simple morph. Few congenital diseases can be cured, but only because they're written into the DNA.)

(Not _Soola's_ disease, then?) She asked.

(No, unfortunately.)

Cirell nodded, looking despondent.

(What's wrong?)

(My father died of _Soola's_ disease,) she said.

(I'm sorry to hear that…you don't think you're infected, do you?)

(I don't know. I'm too afraid to get tested.)

Escafil almost laughed. Cirell, so brave and headstrong in the political, cutthroat atmosphere of research science, too afraid to administer one of the simplest tests of all.

(You shouldn't be. You don't have to worry about the symptoms for decades, even if you are infected.)

(Yes, but if I am, that's how I will die.)

(No one knows how they're going to die, Cirell.)

(If nothing else kills me, then that will. That knowledge is depressing enough.)

Escafil felt a surge of sympathy for his young lover. A strange part of him suddenly wanted to give up his work and work instead on a cure for Soola's disease. How unfair that his technology had inadvertently pushed medical knowledge forward hundreds of years, but the one danger to his loved one still remained.

The following day, the military contacted Escafil again. Having read about the sudden influx of interest from the medical community, they indicated that they were still interested in the technology for their own ends. Escafil did not understand why both the military and the medical fields could share in the benefits of his work, but apparently the conflicts of interest would eventually force him to choose which field got the initial rights. This was the source of most of his nerves.

It came down to the inevitable distinction that separated Andalite society. The work of science—to create a better life for everyone, to flourish, to advance. The work of war—to destroy, to carve away, to minimize. He'd have to choose between the two, and, as an incredibly partial judge, his personal choice was clear. He could only hope that no outside force would interfere with his obvious decision.

But all of that unpleasantness would come later. Now came the delicate and necessary phase of demorphing.


	6. Chapter 6

Escafil was getting close.

Cirell and Tlaxick could barely stand anymore, he had them working such long, irregular hours. But his sense of sympathy had taken a distant back seat to his imagination and drive. He'd gone through dozens of djabalas and kafits during the first stage of his research, but now he only used five.

Morphing and demorphing.

Back and forth.

Psychological profiling took up much of his time. It was easy to observe the physical changes of a morph, but more challenging and far more important to observe the psychological ones. From his careful research, Escafil deduced that the morph's mind—not their brain, but their mind—was usually the last thing to emerge. Brain physiology is among the most complicated of any organism, and thus the brain was usually the last thing to redevelop completely. This was very important, and an unplanned victory. Morphing would be entirely impractical if the instincts and drive of some of the more wild morphs kicked in before the morph was entirely complete.

Escafil observed other things that made him excited.

Specimen 842—one of the first Kafit birds he had demorphed, a specimen he had used extensively and taken quite a liking to—was beginning to acclimate to the djabala's mind much more quickly once it had morphed. In fact, the last few trials showed little to no shifts in species identity. He wondered what the cause was. The first few times, all the specimens began acting like their morph in no time, and showed little or no resistance to the morph's instincts, but now Specimen 842 seemed to grasp that it had a different identity before the morph, and would reclaim that identity again. There were lots of simple explanations—operant conditioning, psychological acclimation. With every simple explanation, however, came a multitude of very difficult questions. Kafits were not generally considered sentient, and Escafil had assumed that was why the first specimens could not differentiate between the djabala's physical brain and their own past experiences—what if this particular Kafit was different? Had Escafil inadvertently given Specimen 842 an identity, a _soul_ by changing its form? What did all of this evidence mean for the first Andalite test? He assumed it was good—for a while he was terrified that changing himself into a djabala would mean he could never really come back to life—but the fact that it was good news for him also meant it was inhumane to his test subjects.

Of course, these were questions for philosophers, not scientists. He'd let those depressive fools take care of most of that unpleasant work. They could vilify him in decades, when they finally got around to it, when most of the beneficial applications of his technology would already be accepted as mundane parts of everyday life.

It was late at night, and Escafil had been observing Specimen 842 very closely. He put out a dish of _ravva_ worms (a staple in the djabala's diet), and a dish of derrishoul nuts (a delicacy for any Kafit bird), and, staring at the little morphed form of Specimen 842, observed its behavior.

Specimen 842 seemed confused. He pawed the nuts, took a few in his mouth, but seemed disenchanted by them. His nose kept drifting to the worms, but he didn't want to commit to them. Escafil had been timing how long it took for Specimen 842 to finally surrender to the worms. Every day, it took a little bit longer.

Two minutes later, Species 842 finally gave into its instinctual urges and began pre-chewing the _ravva_ worms like it would in the wild.

Escafil sighed and engaged the thought-speech recorder. (Eight minutes, fifty-two seconds. We're nearing an exponential increase in time. By trial 82, it should refuse the worms entirely.)

He finally mentally stepped far enough away from his work to look around. Tlaxick was in the cage room, massaging the pregnant _djabala_'s belly (it turned out that morphs were, in fact, fertile, and Escafil was excited to see if the offspring would survive), and he was eyeing Cirell with a degree of concern. Escafil followed his gaze and saw Cirell sprawled on top of a computer panel, fast asleep. Escafil felt a rush of panic, but slowly stepped over to her, and touched her shoulders.

(Cirell,) he said quietly, somehow afraid to disturb her. (Cirell, wake up.)

(Nhuh?) She asked, peeling her face away, wiping the slime from her eyes and nose. (Oh, please tell me this is a nightmare.)

(It's all right, maybe we should call it a night.)

(Did I lose any data?) Cirell said, waking up quickly, engaging the computer. (I drooled all over it, oh Cirell you unprofessional child!)

Escafil felt a little guilty. He'd unfairly transposed his own obsession onto his staff, and now they were losing their minds just as surely as he had lost his. He didn't let go of her shoulders as her hands flew across the panel, and he moved his outside hand against her face to calm her.

(It's fine, Cirell. Just step back.)

(The data remained intact, fortunately. Good thing computers aren't susceptible to sloth and _idiocy_.)

(Stop being so hard on yourself, you've barely moved from that computer for sixty hours. It won't miss you for ten. Go home, get some rest.)

Cirell turned to him and smiled. Escafil was a little shocked.

(Cirell, you're pale as a sheet. Have you eaten anything at all today?)

Cirell looked concerned. Escafil wiped a sudden veil of cold sweat from her forehead.

(I can't do anything except eat,) she responded. (And I'm thirsty all of the time, too.)

(Probably from being locked up in here,) Tlaxick said. (Appetites increase greatly in captivity. Isn't it a vestige from when we still had mating seasons?)

Escafil was annoyed that Tlaxick had decided to interrupt them with his characteristic wild speculations, but was vaguely unsettled by his hypothesis for some unknown reason.

(Go home, Cirell. Get some rest. We should all go home,) Escafil said, looking over at Tlaxick, who was elbow-deep in djabala droppings. (And clean yourself up, you disgusting animal.)

Tlaxick and Cirell left shortly after, and Escafil took special care of Specimen 842, once he'd demorphed it, stroking its new, shining feathers, marveling at its crisp, unscarred beak. There was a certain glow newly morphed specimens had. Devoid of any scars or blemishes or evidence of life. Like an old toy ripped straight from the packaging. Escafil couldn't help but imagine the cosmetic applications of his technology, along with everything else. Everyone had been a fool to ignore his work for so long.

Escafil suddenly heard his communicator. It was incredibly late. The only kind of call that would come at a ridiculous time like this was from off-planet. He felt his fur stand on end again, a surge of panic in his bloodstream. Who would want to call him from off-planet?

He walked over to the communications panel. Tried to gain composure, temper his obvious panic. He pressed the button.

A familiar face greeted him, and it was not happy.

(Escafil,) the young warrior said. (I'm glad I caught you. I was going to leave a message. I didn't realize you'd still be in your lab.)

(All...Alderan…)

(Alloran,) the warrior offered.

(My apologies. I've been too distracted to learn names for the last--)

(Fifty years?)

Escafil sighed and smiled. (At least the scatterbrained don't start wars, like the pragmatic and violent.)

(I truly, truly wish that were the case, Escafil.)

Escafil felt another surge of unexplained panic and could only wait for an explanation.

(I won't be so optimistic to pretend that you actually pay attention to intergalactic news, so I'll just tell you what happened. My prince, Prince Seerow, the man that came to see you, you remember him?)

(Seerow, was that his name?)

(Yes, Seerow. Seerow was like you. A scientist. Not a biologist, but an anthropologist. He likes traveling. He's worked with alien species before. He's usually very good at his work. Without his pioneering efforts, our relationships with the _Anati_ and _Yertung_ would not be nearly as diplomatic. But he's getting cocky, and I am afraid about his latest efforts.)

(What does any of this have to do with me?)

(I realize you have executive power to decide which industry gets the primary privilege to use your technology. It's a strange custom. There are not many scientists I would trust to distribute knowledge and wealth, but apparently it's an incentive that has worked in the past.) Alloran closed his eyes and took a breath. (I must implore you to give the military that privilege.)

Escafil laughed for a very long time, and the young warrior took it. Escafil laughed for minutes, not realizing until after he was done how very much he had needed it.

(You arrogant snake,) Escafil cackled. (You really think you can call me in my lab, in the middle of the night, and expect me to heed your advice? What do you know, besides how best to kill an unarmed civilian, or swagger into closed, respected communities and cause trouble and violence?)

Alloran absorbed the insults. (Say whatever you want about me. This isn't about me, and it's not about you. Without your technology, I don't know if we can win this next war.)

(Since when is there a war? I thought you were just speculating.)

(I am, but…I don't want to think what will happen. I don't want to think about it. It's sickening, this species. They delight him, they're obsequious and vile. What they plan to do is so totally obvious. He won't listen to reason. He pities them. _I _pity them, but that doesn't mean I'd give them ships and weapons. Weapons! What do they need weapons for?)

Escafil didn't understand what the young man was saying, but he felt a surge of dread within him. There was such a sincerity and humility in the young man's eyes. Escafil felt a strange moment of understanding. A proud warrior would never plead with a proud scientist unless it was truly the last resort.

(What are they called?) Escafil asked.

(Yeerks. They call themselves Yeerks.)

Escafil was tired. And he was still buzzing with the continued successes he was mounting in his lab. But he was suddenly struck with the truth that this young, brash, confident warrior had unloaded on him.

(I'll need to do some research,) he said.

(Of course you will. You're a scientist. Please, read everything you can.)

(I assume you have information for me. Tainted, partial information you'd love for me to ingest.)

(I'll upload it as soon as we terminate.)

(Don't call here at this time, ever again. I'll contact you once I've made my decision.)

(Thank you, Escafil.)

Escafil terminated communications and rubbed his eyes. If this was true, if the Andalites were really on the brink of war, then he might need to accelerate his process. He had planned on trying the first Andalite morph in a week.

He decided to do it tomorrow.

Cirell and Tlaxick both stood before him. Cirell was armed with a manual demorpher. Tlaxick was armed with an electric tazer that he used to pacify the test subjects.

(We can still wait,) Cirell pleaded with him. (Are you sure you're ready?)

(A real scientist takes risks, Cirell. A real scientist accepts his ultimate destiny.)

Tlaxick snorted. Escafil glared. (Sorry, sir. You were being serious.)

(Do you want to do it instead, you insolent moron?)

(No, I'll let you be the pioneer, sir.)

Escafil breathed deeply. He'd acquired the technology. He'd acquired the morph.

(If _anything_ seems wrong,) Escafil reminded both of them.

(I'll demorph you right away,) Cirell said. She was still very pale.

(If I don't come back…) he said.

(You'll come back.)

(But if I don't--)

(You'll come back, Escafil. Stop worrying about it.)

He smiled at the young girl and nodded.

(All right. Recording device activated. Begin Andalite morphing trial 1…now.)


	7. Chapter 7

Escafil was terrified.

For a moment, he didn't feel anything. No one had ever tried this before, he wasn't even entirely sure how it worked. Sure, most Andalite technology had advanced to the state of psychic controls, which formed the basis of his device, but how exactly would he activate it?

_Morph_, he thought to himself. Nothing was happening. _How silly must I look right now?_

He watched his two assistants' eager expressions, bordering on impatience. He could almost laugh, he felt so suddenly frustrated and stupid.

(We're not ready for this, are we? No matter. With a little more tinkering, we should be able--)

(Sir, _look_.)

Escafil gazed down to his hands. A deep crevice had appeared between his two center fingers, creeping down his forearm and sinking down into his arm, creating the two, long insectoid grabbers. Small, hairy feelers poked through his skin.

The morph stalled out as Escafil stared at his arm in shock. Cirell couldn't peel her main eyes from the deformed arm, one stalk eye zipping all around, panicked and searching futilely for danger, while the other gazed into his eyes. It was like she couldn't decide whether to be horrified or enthralled.

(Don't stop, Escafil,) she said to him. (Keep going.)

She put her hand over his shifting arm, and though it was weak, she gave it a reassuring squeeze.

(It works,) he said with an air of mindless wonder.

Cirell seemed to swoon on her hooves a little but nodded her stalk eyes in assent. (Finish it, Escafil.)

Escafil breathed deeply through his mostly-Andalite lungs and continued.

His arms continued to change He felt a strange crippling sensation as the bones in his arms dissolved, accompanied by a spike of adrenaline as he rememebered the trauma his body was going through.

He did not experience most of the physical changes. He was made aware by a horrified gasp from Cirell that his tail had shriveled and curled into his body, though he could not see the event because his stalk eyes had gone blind. Another surge of adrenaline. He was suddenly and seemingly irrevocably defenseless. Through some combination of hidden courage and obsessive tenacity, he continued.

He began to shrink. His stomach did a flip as he began, feeling as though he was falling. At the same time, his sight changed. Narrowed. Dulled down. His assistants' faces became foggy and incomprehensible, though he noticed that things in the distance became more clear. He was becoming farsighted.

A sudden flare of glee erupted in his chest as he realized how useful this application could be to macrobiologists. They had spent centuries, even millennia observing the behavior of their planet's species, but now they could understand them on an entirely new level. Of course farsightedness made sense in djabalas. Of course it did. They were prey. It was more important for them to be cognizant of events and predators from far away than to completely understand anything right up next to them. He wondered what other insights he would have into this pervasive, obnoxious species, what else he could understand—

Then it shifted.

Suddenly, powerfully. He'd been so caught up in his scientific imagination that he hadn't even noticed he'd completed the morph.

Females. There were females all around him, and he felt such a strong yearning, almost an organic claw that grabbed him and aroused him, they were everywhere and he wanted them. Where were they?

And food. Lots of food, but where? He shifted around in a small circle, sniffing the air with his powerful olfaction, noting that it came from the southwest. He looked up, seeing the twin suns high overhead, and felt suddenly terrified and exposed. He began scuttling toward the southwest, hoping he'd come across a tree or rise in the landscape that could provide some cover. Shade. He wanted shade. The suns were hot.

But they weren't. They weren't at all. There they were, in the sky, but they did not provide any heat, energy, or comfort. They were there, but they were completely absent.

He kept moving. Toward the food. Toward the females. He'd fulfill one need, and then the other, and then maybe the first again, if he wasn't too tired. Maybe then he'd continue his search for some shade to take a nice afternoon nap.

He suddenly noticed one of the blue ones trailing after him. They were usually harmless, but the fact that something larger than him was following him made him uneasy. He picked up speed.

He looked up. Another blue one! Ambushed! What did they want with him? They'd cornered him like he was a rodent, one had distracted him from behind while the other had snuck around to his front. He felt its hands on his sides, and he opened his gaping, toothless mouth in protest and surrender. He squirmed and thrashed, and one of his sharp little claws dug into the soft, unprotected flesh.

A rush of dark blue, an unpleasant smell. He wanted to run from it. The blue ones bled because of the same creatures that hunted him. Blue blood meant predators were close.

He continued scuttling around the strange valley with the sunless suns. Shade! He'd found shade!

He pressed his body close to the back of the shade. It was flat and cool. It made him sleepy. He thought he'd sit here for a while, maybe take a nap…

One of the blue ones' face appeared before him. Blurry, but he could see the whites of her eyes, the strange way her stalks curled inward. For some reason, it made him sad. He didn't like to see her so upset.

(Escafil, please,) she said with a strange, desperately vulnerable voice. Something rang in his head like a bell on its resonant frequency. Slow and soft at first, but gaining volume, gaining intensity. A kernel of something that had been overwhelmed, completely overcome.

_Escafil_

(Brysist?) He asked softly. (What did I dream?)

The face turned downward. Another face now, next to hers.

(I've got him,) it said.

It took a moment for Escafil to regain himself. The ringing kept expanding until it finally exploded, overcoming the djabala's instincts. Tlaxick had pulled Escafil from under the desk and placed him on top of it.

(How long has it been?) Escafil demanded. (What happened? Where am I? Did I mate with any of the females, oh please tell me--)

(Calm down,) Tlaxick said harshly, an urgent quality to his thought-speech. (I think you should demorph now, sir. Cirell is…)

(What?) He demanded, legs flailing, fear overwhelming, but reason overpowering them all. (What happened to Cirell?)

(She fainted, sir.)

(Are you trying to joke, Tlaxick? I would advise against it. Though your career in neobiology is unpromising, it is surely more possible than a career in comedy.)

(I'm not joking, sir. I believe she needs medical attention.)

Escafil did his best to focus the djabala's unsuitable eyes She appeared as a flat blue blob on the ground, but resting, surely. Her arm was draped somewhere above her head. Her stalk eyes were flaccid and immobile.

Escafil motored around the desktop. He was panicked, terrified, not only because of Cirell, but because he wanted to go back to the shade. Though he wanted to be concerned with her entirely, he was relieved that he had not lost himself to the _djabala_, and overcome with the revelation that the Andalite mind and morphed brain conflicted inefficiently, but they could work together.

He began to demorph. It was much easier going back to his original form than it had been morphing to the djabala. Still, he was unsettled by the things that should really hurt, the things that didn't only because his brain was not conditioned to perceive them.

When he finished, he looked at Tlaxick, who seemed to be somewhere between disgusted and inspired. Then he looked over at Cirell.

She was still out cold.

(You fool, did you do nothing?) He demanded of the young boy, kneeling beside his lover, expecting his arthritis to attack him, and being hauntingly reminded that malady had been healed. (She may have hurt herself. Call the hospital wing, I fear something terrible.)

Escafil had not forgotten what Cirell had told him. Though the symptoms of _Soola's_ Disease did not normally appear until much later in life, some cases were known to be accelerated if the polluted gene was inherited from both mother and father. Cirell had mentioned that her father died from it. Was her mother a carrier as well?

(Are you sure you want me to do that, sir?)

(Do you contradict me for any other reason besides your ineptitude?)

Tlaxick gazed down at him sympathetically. Escafil did not understand why and it frightened him.

(My wife has a constitution unlike any other, sir. Nothing could faze her. And I mean nothing. My brother and I made a game of it. The first that can disturb Puerra, wins. We told her sick stories, shocking revelations. The kinds of things children tell each other to enhance their reputations. I brought her holo-videos of some of the first specimens that we morphed.)

(Do you realize how many confidentiality agreements you broke doing that?)

(Yes, sir. I do.)

Tlaxick continued to gaze down at him, and Escafil now saw something beyond the sympathy, something much more frightening. Power.

Leverage.

(Do you have a point to make or are you going to continue to stare at me like a useless _vecol_?)

(We'd given up. For months. She laughed at us. Games stop being fun if you lose every time. We gave up until about seven months ago. We were in my brother's scoop. He and I were just playing. Tail-fighting. Jesting. A silly game. Full of its own inherent mild danger, sure. I sliced my brother in the chest. It was a mild cut, an accident. Nothing to be worried about. Barely any blood at all. But it made Puerra faint, sir. She fainted at the mere sight of a few drops of blood.)

Escafil's throat clutched shut.

(What are you implying, Tlaxick?)

(I'm implying that maybe you shouldn't take Cirell to the hospital, where she can get, you know. Diagnosed.)

Escafil had been watching Tlaxick with his main eyes, but now turned them down to his lover, feeling something from deep within rip him into two distinct parts.

Cirell began to stir. Her eyelids fluttered, her stalk eyes lifted, though precarious and weak. Escafil clutched her hand.

(Are you all right, Cirell?)

(You're back,) she said weakly. (You didn't hear us at all. You kept running, scurrying around like a deranged insect! It was terrifying, Escafil, I thought I'd lost you.)

(If you were so disturbed, why didn't you demorph me?)

Cirell was shaking her head, so pale and fragile. (I forgot, I suppose. I was so frightened, and I felt faint, and…I fainted, didn't I? Why do I _continue_ to embarrass myself? You must think me so unprofessional, such an amateur...)

He kissed her softly on the cheek. (Cirell, I believe something very terrible has happened.)

(What? You morphed, you demorphed. You're fine. The device works. The experiment was a success. What could possibly be wrong?)

Escafil shook his head, two parts rubbing against each other like dry twigs. He didn't know how much he could take before he burst into flames of rage and disgust.

(Tlaxick…I mean I think…)

(Stop babbling, you old fool.)

(I think you're pregnant, Cirell.)


	8. Chapter 8

Cirell gazed at him for a few minutes. He wasn't sure if she had heard him, and if she had, he wasn't sure if it had registered. Then her eyes suddenly brightened like bolts of lightning and she laughed.

(It's happened, hasn't it? The thing they tell all assistants so they feel better about themselves. "Even the greatest minds are influenced by those who support them." Tlaxick has gotten to you. It's no good, Escafil, we both know his theories are always wild and rarely correct.)

Escafil gulped, hoping that she was right. He helped her to her hooves.

(I don't know why you insult me when we've got a medical scanner right here,) Tlaxick said. (It's not like this is a difficult "wild guess" to test.)

Tlaxick walked over and handed the small, hand-held device to Escafil. It wasn't much good for anything besides simple blood tests, and certainly couldn't be used to treat anything, but Cirell stared at both him and it in horror as he adjusted and calibrated the instrument.

(Escafil,) she began, shaking her stalk eyes. (You don't…I'm fine, really, you're right, I just need to get out more. Maybe I'll go for a run this afternoon, if you can cope without me for a couple of hours. That will make me feel better. It's just nerves, I'm fine, really.)

(I won't check for _Soola's _if you don't want me to,) he said.

Cirell got even paler and swooned again. He grabbed her arm hard to steady her.

(I don't want to know, Escafil,) she said to him privately.

He looked at her sympathetically. The device was ready.

(But I have to,) he replied.

He held her hand out toward him and pricked the tip of her finger.

The readout was instantaneous. He felt his hearts leap and his stomach drop.

He looked back at Cirell. He'd never seen her so fragile, so afraid. (Don't say it, Escafil,) she whimpered.

(Tlaxick, can you give us some privacy?) He asked the boy.

(Sir, I just want you to know that I may not have kept the holovideos confidential, but you have my complete-- )

(Just get out of here, Tlaxick.)

Tlaxick gazed at Cirell. (I'm so sorry, Cirell.) Then he left.

Escafil could barely stand to look at Cirell, but he also couldn't look away. He knew he had to be patient, and kind, and comforting for the girl, but there was rage and elation and disgust and hope within him all at once. His greatest dream had been realized, but it had been delivered in the form of the ugliest possible nightmare.

(I think…) she breathed, knees buckling again. Escafil dropped the medical scanner and caught her beneath the shoulders. His weak arms couldn't support her, so he let her drop to the ground, settling there with her, holding her until she could find the strength to wake up.

What was he going to do?

He knew it was a secondary question. He had the contemptible option of abandoning her. A paternity test would reveal his crime, but not before giving him a very substantial head start. Besides, he'd already abandoned one mate. He wasn't about to do that again.

He stroked the side of her face for minutes, running through the options in his head. He could send her away to some remote, polar area, some place where strict laws were more like reasonable suggestions. Uncivilized places that would treat Cirell more civilly than anywhere on the equator. She'd have to live out her life there, with the child, and he'd visit as often as he could. It wouldn't be difficult—with Brysist such a remote participant in his life, no children of his own, and his greatest work coming to a close…

He wanted it so badly. As Cirell's shallow breaths continued to channel through her, cold sweat clumping her fur, Escafil laid his tail gently on her flanks, imagining the possible life he could now lead.

But no. His own desires were only one variable in the equation. What would happen to Cirell if he got everything he'd always wanted? She'd be an outcast, stripped of her career, expelled from her family, at the very least. Responsibility for execution in these matters often fell to immediate relatives. That way, the government could flaunt a perfect record while maintaining the order that necessitated the laws simultaneously.

Escafil had only confused himself even more, but Cirell began to stir.

Her eyes were shut tight, and she indicated her consciousness by clinging to the short hairs on his chest. (Make it go away, Escafil,) she begged. (Make it not be true.)

His throat clenched shut. There it was, then. He couldn't force her to make his dreams come true without hurting her very much in the process.

(I can't,) he said simply.

(What do you mean you can't? Do you remember nothing from your medical training?)

(Don't let a catastrophe like this inhibit your reasoning ability, Cirell. Do you really think they teach medical students how to administer abortions?)

Cirell pressed her face deeply within his chest. (This is all your fault,) she said.

(They didn't teach abortions, Cirell, but they did teach how babies are made and, from what I can recall, it takes two participants.)

Cirell laughed. One deep, resounding laugh, but then she returned to fear and sickness.

(They'll kill me,) she said. (Mothers always say how much they love you, how they will never stop no matter what happens, but she'll do it. She'll send Jartix, he's a full warrior by now. They'll do it _because_ they love me, that's what they'll say.)

(No one is going to kill you,) Escafil grunted, feeling Cirell's fingers relax, realizing that his gruff, uncouth manner was the greatest comfort to her. (Now get up.)

Cirell took his hands and rose shakily to her hooves. (How are we going to do this?)

(Are you sure this is what you want, Cirell?)

(Yes.)

(No, just hear me--)

(I know, Escafil, all right?) She said, wrapping her arms around each other, coiling her tail tight against her body. (I know what this means to you. I know that right now you're searching for any loophole, any possible means that could deliver you this offspring without hurting me. But it can't be done, all right? It has to come through me. I am the first and most important variable in this equation. And I say no.)

The two halves rubbed together again. The deep, unfulfilled desire, and the deep, crippling love for the girl. He could not have both. He would have to choose. And that made rage burn deeply within him.

(You're right,) he said. (Yes. You're right.)

(So how are we going to do it?)

(Get rid of it?)

Cirell's eyes opened widely in impatience.

(I don't know,) Escafil sighed

(There has to be a way. I mean, you can learn, right? The information has to be somewhere. We can't be the first desperate fools to have made this mistake.)

(The library?)

(They would censor it. We'll have to go somewhere else…where would this information be, where could we…)

Cirell continued to frantically brainstorm as Escafil's mind wandered back to a different kind of imagination. Brysist would want the child. Would she forgive his infidelity? Yes. She still loved him. That would make it more difficult at first, but with finesse and patience he could convince her. He could get her to love a child that was not hers by blood. Convincing others would be more difficult. Escafil and Brysist were old…too old? Adoption was not common among Andalites, but some situations made it a necessity…he could think of an excuse. If only there was some way to remove the gift from Cirell and deliver to his wife! Purge the organic growth and simply change its address…

_What kinds of ailments can be cured just from morphing alone?_

Escafil's eyes traveled to his device. The strange, little cube that was simply the most feasible, ergonomic container for the technology. He began to think.

(--so that's it, you can morph into djabala and sneak into the Electorate's archives, retrieve the relevant information, and perform the procedure yourself! Escafil, are you listening to me at all?)

His gaze shifted back to her. (No,) he said honestly.

Cirell gave another quiver of vulnerability and fear. (I can't do this alone, Escafil. I thought I could do anything alone, but I need you for this. Please.)

(I have an idea,) he said.

(Oh thank Elder, what is it?)

(Morph it away.)

(Morph…what?)

(The device purges any foreign organic growth, you know that.)

(But not the important ones! You told me this! You maintained a sample of bacterial DNA so digestion wouldn't be arrested, all the little symbiotic organisms are preserved through morphs!)

(I didn't program anything about pregnancy, Cirell. The default setting is to purge any organic material, unless the user chooses to preserve it.)

(I don't want to preserve it.)

(I know.)

The color began to return to Cirell's face.

(So you're saying I can just…morph it away? Like some injury?)

Escafil shrugged his stalk eyes. (Theoretically.)

(How comforting.)

(We'll have to be careful, though,) Escafil said. (Zydrin doesn't even know we had a successful Andalite trial today. If he finds out I'm giving this technology to my assistants without permission, he'll take over the whole project and probably fire us both.)

(That would be an extreme reaction.)

(It would give him personal acclaim, wouldn't it? He's probably just waiting for something like this.)

Escafil moved very slowly and retrieved the device. Cirell walked up behind him.

(I'm sorry, Escafil,) she said.

(Yes,) he agreed.

(You must think me very cruel,) she said. He turned a stalk eye, not able to entirely refute her statement.

(It's either cruelty to me or cruelty to you. The cruelty to me is less severe. I will not die because I don't get a child. But if I do, you will.)

Cirell watched him for a long time, sick, scared eyes turning very sad. (You will never love me again, will you?)

Escafil didn't know how to answer that. One half of him always would. But the other half never could again.

(The sooner we fix this, the sooner we can move past it,) he said, holding the device up to her.

(How long do I have in morph, again?)

(One hundred sixty five minutes, according to my calculations.)

(I thought it was one hundred forty-four,) she said.

Escafil felt a bristle of indignation that she was testing him, in addition to his own rage and grief, and he almost lashed out at her. Instead, he held his breath. (That was before Zero-Space shifted. It's a little longer now.)

(The time limit depends on Zero-Space?)

(Everything about morphing depends on Zero-Space.)

(Hmm,) she said thoughtfully. (So in and out should be no problem regardless, correct?)

Escafil shrugged, distracted. He was nervous now, in addition to sad and angry and happy and hopeful and tired and defeated. But he didn't know why.

(All right.) Cirell touched the device, and it hummed and glowed in Escafil's hand. (I think I'll go with Kafit bird, just because I don't want to be overcome by any other intense carnal urges.)

She walked back into the cage room and Escafil let her go. Something was bothering him. Well, everything was, but something in particular just didn't feel right.

Cirell returned shortly after. (I picked that male,) she said. (The one with the iridescence.)

(842?) Escafil asked. (He is my favorite.)

(I know.) Cirell tried to smile, but she was still too scared to make it genuine. Then she began to morph.

It took less time with her. Escafil should have been paying closer attention. The kafit's instincts weren't as strong as the djabala's, but they were still present. And Escafil should have cared enough to protect her, to reverse it for her in case something went wrong. But he was so disgusted with her, so distracted by the sudden turn of events that he couldn't think. He just wanted to go home and confess everything to Brysist, and accept her soothing comfort, something she would not have been so averse to giving years ago. He longed for the past, only because in his present, he was repeating the same mistakes.

Cirell morphed much more quickly than Escafil. Quite a long time before he expected her to be done, she was hopping around on the ground, rooting in the earth for any nuts or fallen twigs.

(That was quick,) he said to her. Her small, avian head turned up to him.

(Yes,) she said. (And controlling this beast isn't so difficult, I really don't know--)

Escafil felt the air shift in his laboratory. A current of wind from some source that made him burst with fear. The door had opened, and seven people, including Zydrin and Tlaxick, came barreling in.

(You had a successful Andalite trial without informing me?) Zydrin boomed.


	9. Chapter 9

(I…sir, now is really not a good time--) Escafil stuttered as Zydrin continued to seethe.

(Good time?!) Zydrin boomed, making the gaggle of Andalites behind him shirk back in fear. (Do you really think my purpose is so meaningless that I am only here to accommodate you?)

(Well, yes,) Escafil choked out. Zydrin's eyes were blazing, and for someone so old, he was holding his tail rather high and stiff.

Escafil's mind began churning, wondering what had clued Zydrin into Escafil's most recent success. (This is your fault, isn't it?) Escafil asked Tlaxick privately.

(Indirectly,) Tlaxick sighed back. (I'd forgotten to turn the recording device from its closed network broadcast to simple digital recording. Your morph broadcast to everyone watching channel 5.)

Indirectly was right. That was Cirell's job. But she had a good excuse for forgetting. Escafil groaned, feeling a prickle of fear run up his neck. Zydrin closed the distance between them.

(I told you I wanted to be here,) he seethed privately.

(It's my work. I'm not your pet.)

(Really? I feed you and praise you for doing a good little job and give you shelter. If not my pet, then what are you?)

(Zydrin, let us see the technology,) one of his associates said. One of Zydrin's stalk eyes snapped back.

(Of course,) he said. (Escafil, where is it?)

(Escafil,) he suddenly heard a private gasp in his head. (Escafil, send them away. I have to demorph.)

(Just hold on, Cirell. We've got time.)

(But if they--)

(Cirell, calm down!) He shouted. His impatience had reached its threshold. He knew she had just been through a very traumatic experience and had meant to employ patience and comfort, but he couldn't. They all wanted to take things from him. They all wanted it for themselves. He felt himself seethe, felt his skin crawl in rage, felt tremors run up and down his stiff, immobile tail.

(Just hurry up,) she hissed back.

(If you have time, now, Escafil, we really would love to see a demonstration of your technology. I know what a busy, difficult life you lead, appeasing prima donna scientists and funding boards and shuffling resources, but please, take your time.) Zydrin had started by addressing the entire group, but ended talking to him privately.

(Sir, where's Cirell?) Tlaxick asked, again privately.

Escafil's head was beginning to throb. He did not like being the center of attention. He did not have the concentration to address all of these problems at once.

(I would love to give you and our colleagues a demonstration,) Escafil said, using far too bright a voice, something unsettling and uncharacteristic. Zydrin took a step back in confusion. Escafil approached the group clasping his hands together, waving his stalk eyes in far too friendly a matter. (Please, come around the lab table. My assistant here will ensure your protection. You all know how unstable Kafits can get! Tlaxick, please return Specimen 824 to his cage.)

(But I thought he already was--) Tlaxick began

(That is Cirell, you moron.) Escafil whispered privately.

(Hi, Tlaxick,) she said.

(Does that mean…oh…well, okay.)

(There, now we can get down to business!) Escafil chirped.

(Is that one of the specimens?) One of the professors asked. Escafil recognized her. It was Neffergil, a prominent zoologist. (I'd love to examine the specimens you've already morphed.) Another wash of fear spread through Escafil.

He had a decision to make. Zydrin was furious that Escafil had morphed without informing him, and Escafil didn't want to imagine how he would react to the fact that Cirell obtained the technology before he did. Zydrin's tail was still twitching, and Escafil feared that he may use it.

He could do a demonstration and answer any of their questions in less than 165 minutes. Or 144. She would be fine.

(Tlaxick,) Escafil said to the young boy. He nodded a stalk eye in response. (Answer any questions Professor Neffergil asks. She has a tendency to get wrapped up in one task, so just try to keep her moving. Do your best to give Cirell the privacy she needs to demorph.)

(I'll try, sir, but it was Neffergil that stopped me in the first place. She said she's wanted to examine your specimens for some time.)

(Cirell,) he said to her privately, (I need you to act like a Kafit for a while. I'll make sure you don't get trapped. I promise.)

(I trust you,) she said to him. (You've earned my complete trust, after today.)

Even though he shouldn't have been able to talk to a bird, and didn't want to reveal who that bird truly was, he smiled a little.

(Yes, that is one of the specimens,) he said to Neffergil. (Tlaxick here can show you the rest. I would be more than happy to perform a demonstration for all of you as well.)

(Well, don't keep us waiting,) Zydrin said as Tlaxick unconfidently led Neffergil away, clinging to a strangely cooperative Kafit bird.

Escafil watched them descend from view, almost too distracted to listen. (Yes…) he said. (Yes. My apologies. Stand back. There is a moment at the beginning of the morph when I am entirely overwhelmed by the djabala's brain.)

(Fascinating,) croaked Puxikil, a psychologist specializing in xenomorphic identity. (You say this only happens at the beginning?)

(Yes,) Escafil said patiently. He'd managed to avoid this step in the scientific process, and was glad to have postponed it until now. He had friends in the scientific community, of course. People who knew his name, had met his wife, remembered his birthday. But he was not particularly close with any of them. He preferred being alone in his work, and sharing the important things with Cirell. Despite their brilliance, most of his colleagues were very self-conscious. Entering discourse with intelligent, educated people can be very rewarding, but not when they're only talking to you so they can reassure themselves of their own intelligence and education.

(So how does the Andalite identity reassert itself? What is the physical process by which that occurs?)

(A channel remains open between the new, physical body and the mass expelled to Zero-Space,) Escafil explained. (The identity, the mind, remains mostly intact and functional within the superdimensional folds of Zero-Space. It simply takes a few moments for the morph's instincts and the Andalite identity to jibe and interact in an efficient manner.)

(So there is mass just floating around in Zero-Space, while our ships and transports have the power to slice right through it?) That was Grinfarn, a Zero-Space specialist. They were generally a paranoid bunch. He'd worked very closely with Escafil in the initial phases of his project.

(As you recall, my dear colleague, Zero-Space, like normal space, is very big. The odds of that happening are infinitesimal. In fact, I would stake the claim that something like that scenario could never, ever happen.)

(Is there any limit to taxonomic difference between the base species and the morph? How many specimens have you tried?)

(Only two. Right now, it seems we can only morph CNS-based organisms.)

(That makes sense. I wonder if guide trees qualify…)

The group of scientists got lost in their idle speculation and incessant questioning for over an hour. Before long, however, Zydrin grew impatient and silenced the increasingly excited group of old intellectuals.

(Excuse me for being a visual-based learner, but can we see you perform a morph or not?) He huffed.

(Of course.)

His colleagues all silenced themselves in giddy anticipation, rocking backwards and forwards on their hooves, wobbling their tails from side to side like a child on his first day of school. Escafil breathed deeply, held his breath, and began the morph.

Bursts of thought-speech entered his mind.

(It's happening insequentially, the morph is different now than the recording-- )

(There is no heat by-product, the energy transfer is entirely self-contained--)

(Evolutionary patterns are evident! Look at the hooves, they're so similar to the pads on the djabala's feet--)

Each of the specialists retreated to their own selfish work, watching their colleague demonstrate his before them.

The only thing going through Escafil's mind, however, was the hope that he would not embarrass himself as badly as last time. There were still a lot of djabala females in that cage room.

From which Neffergil had still not emerged.

Escafil stalled the morph out for a moment, recalculating the amount of time that had passed. Seventy-two minutes. Cirell would be fine.

He finished a few minutes earlier than the last time. And though he could feel the presence of the djabala's instincts and drives, it did not overwhelm him as badly as before.

(Fascinating!) A few of his colleagues blurted out at once. Escafil tried to blink away his hyperopia, forgetting that it was inherent to his current form. A few of his colleagues stepped closely, touching his flesh without permission, breaking manners Andalite foals learn within days of birth. Perhaps they had forgotten that he was still an Andalite.

(It truly is a djabala, inside and out,) one of them said, though it was getting difficult to tell them apart. (I admit my doubt, Escafil, I thought your technology was simply glorified deception, a tool by which to dupe the Andalite people. But you've really done it. You've honestly found a way for a man to change his form.)

This surprised him. Until that moment, he hadn't realized how much he'd needed just a little bit of positive reinforcement.

(Are the rest of you satisfied?) He asked.

(What is it like? What does it feel like?)

(Everything is different, but the djabala's brain translates all of the perceptions for me.)

(And when you morph back?)

(Allow me to show you,) he said, beginning the demorphing process.

(That's it, isn't it?) Quervalt, one of Escafil's oldest friends from medical school, asked. (I walked in here thinking you looked as fresh as the day you graduated. All of the ailments and abuses your body has suffered throughout your life were expunged, weren't they? _Illsipar_ addiction, scars, arthritic joints. All of them can be purged through this simple transformation. Do you even feel like a sire anymore?)

It was a poor choice of words, but it made Escafil laugh. (I feel as fit as a colt,) he answered.

His colleagues were impressed. Escafil was proud. He'd warmed up to their admiration, he began to accept it as sincere. For a long time, he answered their questions, shooting a knowing, arrogant glance at Zydrin every once and a while, suddenly bemused by the fact that he had almost been shut down. He laughed with his friends, accepted their congratulations, and promised them that he would thank all of them individually when accepting the biannual Elder Award granted by the Electoral Institute for Science.

He accepted their praise for a long time. Finally, his stalk eye accidentally glanced the cage room on a random sweep and he remembered the time.

(All right, everyone,) he said with a laugh. (Thank you for coming by. I plan on beginning my report tomorrow, and I'll be sure to send all of you the first draft as soon as it is complete. For now, let's allow my poor assistants to go home for the night.)

(Where is Cirell, anyway?) Zydrin asked slowly.

(Um, resting. She was feeling a tad under the weather.)

(I heard _yamphut_ is going around. You should tell her to get checked out if it persists.)

(Yes, well, Cirell is not partial to doctors.)

(Is that right?) Zydrin said with a reciprocal arrogant smile. Escafil swallowed back his rage and nodded. (You're right, however. We've cluttered your lab for long enough.)

(I have a lot of work to do before I go home, anyway,) Grinfarn groaned. (Zero-Space shifted last night in our quadrant. I have to rework all of my calculations.)

(What?) Escafil blurted before he could stop himself. (How?)

(I don't know. I wouldn't be able to explain it, anyway. I can only perceive how the extra dimensions behave on a very excellent day after ingesting three or four _illsipar _roots.)

(Yes, well, you best get to it, then. Thank you for stopping by, gentlemen!) He ushered them out as fast as he could, feeling, once again, the prickles of discomfort and danger rise up his tail.

(You seem nervous about something, Escafil,) Zydrin said to him, once the rest of his colleagues had left. (Is there something you'd like to tell me?)

Escafil was about to explode. But he knew there was only one way to get Zydrin to leave.

(Thank you,) he said. Zydrin's eyes opened wide in surprise.

(I'm sorry?)

(Thank you, sir. You're right. I don't appreciate what you do for us nearly enough. You made this possible. As far as I am concerned, it is your victory.)

Zydrin wanted to be angry, but he could only wave his stalk eyes in confusion. (Oh.)

He walked out without saying anything else.

Escafil could still feel the pulses of self-contentment flowing through him, but they were being slowly replaced by nerves. If Zero-Space shifted last night, that meant his calculations were void. The window for staying in morph had changed. He could only hope the changes were insignificant, or perhaps allowed for a greater time in morph. He rushed to the cage room where Tlaxick was holding a fluttering Kafit bird which was losing its feathers and squaking uncontrollably.

(Where is she? She has 23 minutes left, but I want her to--)

(Escafil, how do you do it? How do you demorph?)

The Kafit was Cirell. Escafil walked over, waving off Tlaxick's clutching, insensitive hands. He stroked her behind the head, along her first set of wings.

(Just concentrate, my love. Use the psychic controls the same way, just in reverse.)

(I am, Escafil. I have been, since they left. I must be doing something wrong.)

(Cirell--)

(It's not working, Escafil!) She cried. (I can't demorph!)


	10. Chapter 10

A cold feeling washed through Escafil, something that froze his legs and made his tail stiff and arched. For a moment, he felt a terrible surrender within him, a delusional hope that he could go back thirty minutes, or even thirty seconds, to a time when this was not a part of his reality, a time before the consequences of this turn of events could have even been plausible.

Instead, he chose denial.

(You're not trying hard enough,) he said to Cirell, immediately diving for the demorphing ray that would do the job for her. (You're distracted with your ridiculous female problems. I should have done this in the first place.)

(Escafil,) Tlaxick whispered, glaring slightly. Cirell continued to flutter her wings, unable to hold still.

(Why won't it work?) Cirell kept crying. (You said this was easy, Escafil! I should be able to use technology that an arthritic lump of decaying flesh like you could use!)

Escafil charged up the ray. His fingers were trembling and he almost dropped the device.

(Just hold still, Cirell. We can still fix this.)

She tried to obey, but her head bobbed up and down in a threatening way as if Escafil was a predator. He pointed the beam at her, finger hovering over the engaging button. He shut his stalk eyes and curled them close to his head in a gesture of involuntary terror. _Please_, he begged nothing,_ please let this work._

He engaged the device. A low, warm humming in his hand indicated that it was working. Cirell's avian head continued to bob.

She stared at him, and he could do nothing but stare back. There they were, trapped in this static moment, unwilling to move forward and unable to go back.

They all stood still for a long time until Tlaxick finally said, (Oh, no.)

Cirell began flapping again, but it was not incoherent. Her front wings swept forward, lifting her off the table, and a sweep of her second and third set sent her clear above their heads.

Escafil felt dry terror rise within him, weaken his knees, burst out of him as a cold sweat. Tlaxick wasted no time to hunt after Cirell. He had experience catching riled Kafit birds.

Escafil was overwhelmed, but found himself heading for his computers. The demorphing ray clattered out of his hand when it brushed against the edge of his steel desk. He swept his fanned hands over the minimalist controls of the computer and engaged telepathically. Readouts became visible in his mind, tones at different octaves indicated when something had loaded, a faint, warm sensation passed through his chest when the computer had the information it needed to begin the calculations. He viewed Zero-Space as the software allowed him—a strange mix of color and sound and feeling that twisted in on itself, dimensions represented through the perceptions of different senses, smells showing density, sight showing energy flow, sound and touch representing nodes of connection to normal space.

Grinfarn was right. It had shifted. Escafil loaded his calculations and allowed his mind to organize all of the new variables into them, the smell of a warm sunrise passing through his mind, the sight of his wife on their wedding day, all different signs and indicators that the computer recognized as direct commands.

(Calculations complete,) the computer finally responded in harsh thought-speech. Escafil opened his eyes, realizing that he had been lost somewhere in his artificial world of fake perceptions. He read the results. Blinked, unbelieving, and read them twice more.

He turned a stalk eye to Tlaxick. He was waving his arms as Cirell did laps around the dome, aiming straight for the wall before twitching her wings and changing direction.

He felt submerged in that terrible hope, again, that this was all a dream, or that he somehow wasn't responsible, that someone would come through the door and fix this problem for him, that no one would be hurt, that all this could be remedied. But he was not a coward. He stepped away from the computer and the soft comfort that his programming offered and walked near Tlaxick.

(Cirell,) he said to the bird. (Come down, Cirell.)

(Where is the sun? I can't feel it on my wings! Where is the sky?)

(Cirell.)

(No, I can't feel it, I can't feel any air, I'm trapped in here, there is nothing but dust and dirt. This is not the sky. Where is the sky?)

(Cirell!)

(I can't breathe, I can't breathe!)

Cirell's laps had been getting wider and wider, sounds of her feathers brushing against the holographic wall made Tlaxick and Escafil wince. Finally, she was too late in her turn, barreling into the wall at an oblique angle to the sound of a soft thud and crunch.

Escafil bounded over, Tlaxick right behind. He was careful, spreading her crumpled form, untangling the mass of stringy flesh and feathers. One of her wings had snapped in the middle, a pencil-sized bone sticking through her skin, mottling the iridescent feathers with deep, purple blood.

(What have I done?) He whispered to no one as he tried to set the wing straight. Tlaxick handed him some veterinary bandages as Cirell stirred helplessly in his grasp.

(I can't breathe,) she kept saying. (I can't breathe.)

(Tlaxick, get me a sedative.)

(Sir?)

(Don't make me repeat myself.)

Escafil looked back in frustration when Tlaxick did not immediately respond, and saw a pale, sickened, grieved face standing behind him. Escafil glared, and Tlaxick gazed back, finally nodding and heading back into the cage room.

The hyperventilating, puffed creature did not calm in his grasp, as she would have in her normal form. He realized that he was a predator to her, a danger, a larger animal, not a comforting lover. Tlaxick returned and Escafil dutifully emptied the syringe into her trembling form.

(Put her in your largest cage and make sure it is clean and comfortable. And leave the door open. I have work to do.)

Tlaxick stared at him in some mixture of disbelief and fury, but obeyed his order.

Escafil headed to his computer, now doubting all of his calculations and the years of work he had sacrificed to obtain his device. The energy expended by a morph could only keep a channel open between Zero-Space and normal space for an amount of time that depended solely on the current relationship between the two. But Cirell was still Cirell. Her brain did not become the Kafit's after the connection was severed. Her Andalite mind, lost somewhere in Zero-Space, could still think and communicate with her Kafit body. There was still some kind of connection established.

Lost in Zero-Space, with the rest of her body. The body containing his offspring, his child, now disfigured and mutilated by the extra dimensional folds of a universe that, by all calculations, was entirely devoid of anything.

He couldn't take it anymore. His tail, charged with adrenaline for hours now, flung like a rubber band into his computer console. Sparks showered all around, and he heard cries of distress from the cage room. Tlaxick came bounding in, prepared to fight the intruder off, but calmed and lowered his tail when he saw Escafil there instead of a saboteur.

Escafil continued to unload on the computer. The low, pleasant lighting and hum of power flickered and died, leaving a useless lump of ridiculous technology. Escafil picked up his device and flung it across the room, though the strength in his arms could not move it that far. He stomped over to it and raised his tail above it, ready to bisect and destroy the last ten years of his life. Just as he felt the power in his lower back and tail reach its climax, unleashing all the frustration and grief within his tired form, he sensed Tlaxick's sudden approach, as the young male, perhaps less intelligent but clearly more fit, blocked his blow.

(It cannot exist,) Escafil seethed to him, raising his tail again, aiming now for his assistant. (We should destroy it now so this never happens again.)

(No,) Tlaxick said, and Escafil suddenly felt the boy's strength, the confidence and self-assurance that kept him coming back for his daily abuse and belittlement. He backed up. Tlaxick stood his ground.

(Cirell will be dead within ten years, Tlaxick. I've killed her. I haven't just taken decades of her life, I've corrupted what little she has left. How can that sacrifice be acceptable?)

(If you destroy the device, the sacrifice will be meaningless,) Tlaxick said.

(It is a weapon,) Escafil grieved, putting his trembling hand over forehead. (I'm a warmonger without even meaning to be.)

(It is a tool. Tools are without affiliation. It can be constructive or destructive. You get to choose how it is used.) Tlaxick bent over and picked up the device, holding it carefully under his arm.

(Doctors. Give it to the doctors. Let some good come out of this.)

(Yes, sir.)

(Tlaxick?) Escafil said suddenly.

(Escafil,) Tlaxick answered.

(I'm going to bring her back,) he vowed. (You can work with me. It will be unglorified work. But I'm not leaving this lab until she stands before me, as she was born.)

Tlaxick looked very sad, and glanced down at the device with his stalk eyes. (I'll be here, sir. No matter how long it takes.)

Escafil kept his word for a long time. For weeks he barely left his lab, leaving only for the occasional exfoliating scrub and bathroom break. He took infrequent naps at his desk. After a few days, Cirell came back to her senses, encouraging him to go home, or at least go outside for a run, but Escafil refused. He moved every variable in his equation he could think to move, he reconstructed the device entirely, he performed experiment after radioactive experiment to widen and reintegrate patches of Zero-Space with coordinates in normal space. He worked and worked, until lines etched into his forehead and his skin hung soggy and soft off of his stiff, stressed frame. Tlaxick worked with him, though his impatience was starting to show. They both knew there was nothing to do, but neither would admit it.

He did make one small breakthrough that, at the very least, could possibly prevent something like this from ever happening again. He'd been too hurried, too pressured to push his equations far enough, but he had inadvertently discovered a new universal constant by testing enough connections between normal and Zero-Space. The bridges could stay open, at the very least, for 123 minutes, based on the amount of energy his device could output. That was the threshold, the very lowest time limit, that did not depend on how the two realms interacted.

He would tell everyone 120 minutes, just to be safe. So nothing like this would ever happen again.

But other than that, no headway was made. Tlaxick looked gaunt, Escafil looked pale. They were losing their minds, sacrificing them to some unattainable ideal goal.

It was Cirell who finally got both of them to stop.

(I am still me, Escafil,) she entreated as he studied readouts of her synaptic energy, hoping for some kind of spike in connectivity that could bring her back.

(You are not you enough,) he replied.

(Escafil,) she said quietly. (Escafil, it is done. Please accept it. Don't sacrifice your own life because mine has changed.)

(Changed?) he laughed, recording the data and comparing it to the results from the previous day. (That is the euphemism of all euphemisms.)

(Do you think I'm incapable of living just because I'm no longer an Andalite? Do you think there's less to enjoy? I can fly, Escafil. Well, not now, but you should see the spectrum I can view. And the paranoia, that terrible sleeplessness is gone. I can rest, now. My life is not over.)

(But it is broken.)

(A lot of things break,) she said. (Like your marriage. Is your life over because your marriage is broken?)

Escafil gazed up at her and felt a bruise churn in his hearts. (I found you. You fixed that,) he argued feebly.

(And I have found something new as well,) she said. (You cannot fix me, Escafil. It is done. But…well, maybe not.)

(What?)

(You haven't left your lab in weeks. You should go visit your wife.)

Escafil shook his head. (That cannot be fixed either, Cirell.)

(You still love her.)

He waved his stalk eyes. (I still love my mother, and she died twelve years ago.)

(Brysist is not dead, Escafil.)

(Why are you encouraging this?)

(Because I don't want you to sacrifice your life for me,) she sighed. (Nothing would make me unhappier than to see you lose all semblance of happiness on my behalf.)

Escafil frowned.

(Go, Escafil. I'm not going anywhere. I promise.)

(If it will make you happy,) he sighed.

(I hope it will make _you_ happy,) she responded.

Escafil reluctantly went home. It was late at night when he arrived. When he got there, he was surprised to find Brysist waiting for him.

(Where have you been?) She demanded.

He disintegrated. It surprised him, how suddenly and how uncontrollably he crumpled. He wrapped her hard in his arms and she stood still, neither accepting nor resistant. He cried in his Andalite way, begging her for comfort and forgiveness, admitting to every indiscretion he had committed since they had begun to drift apart.

(--and I didn't come home because I didn't want to see you, because you only gave me continual bad news about our sterility, and I was so tired of failed attempts and disappointments, and I drove you from me, my disgust with our failure made you hate me, and I turned away, I turned to my lab assistant, and I had an affair, and Brysist, she took to child like you never could, and I would have had it with her but she refused, but she was terrified and I made her into a Kafit, Brysist, I killed her for doing the only thing I wanted, the only thing she couldn't give me.)

He knew she couldn't understand all of it, but to his surprise, her hand moved to the back of his neck and around his torso.

(I know, Escafil.) Her grip was soft at first, but tightened in resolve and some weak but strengthening, hibernating, resilient love.

(How?) He asked, pressing his hand against her face, wiping the line of her cheekbone the way she liked.

(I just know. I know because you're my husband. You must know my indiscretions, too,) she sighed, looking down, humble. Escafil did not, narrowing his eyes in confusion.

(I had an affair with Zydrin five years ago,) she admitted.

Escafil pulled away, surprised. (What?)

(I ended it. He told me that he loved me. And I couldn't reciprocate.)

(Why not?)

(Because I didn't. I still loved you.)

Escafil scoffed, burying her in his chest, resting his chin on the top of her head. (That must be why he hates me so much.)

(I hated you too. I still do. But only because I never stopped loving you.)

(Yes,) he sighed, agreeing, forgetting how wonderful it felt to have her pressed up inside of him. (I still love you too.)

He held her for a while, remembering her smell, remembering the way her hand always managed to travel down and massage the tension from his chest. (I suppose we'll have to execute each other for our infidelity,) he said.

(I didn't know you could be so romantic.)

(Is obeying the law romantic?)

She smiled up at him. (I've wanted to kill you for a long time, Escafil. But let us live at least through the night.)

(I think that can be arranged.)

He slept for the first full night in weeks, his wife comfortable in his arms like she had been on their wedding night. They were not healed, but the bone had been set, and perhaps one day it could support weight again.

He kissed his wife before he went back to work the next morning, and when he did, she smiled.

He stared at his computer readout for a long time in silence, as Cirell read a different display.

(Have you been paying attention to the news at all?) She said, in far too conversational a manner.

(No,) Escafil huffed, losing a train of thought that had promised to be fruitful.

(A group of Yeerk renegades attacked an Andalite outpost on their homeworld.)

(How unfortunate.)

(It's war, Escafil.)

He turned a stalk eye to her. Her wing was still slung. She had been flightless for almost seven weeks, but her spirits had lifted considerably.

(So what?)

(You can help them.)

(No,) he said. (I'm not allowing this technology to hurt anyone else. It's done enough damage. Let it only do good for now.)

(It will do good, in the hands of the military. Maybe the ultimate good,) she said.

Escafil turned a stalk eye to her. The Kafit's eyes were hard and uninviting, foreign and soulless. But if he looked hard enough, sometimes he could still see that sarcastic glint, that mischievous and beautiful smile.

(Aren't we all pacifists?) He asked.

(Yes,) she said. (They want bodies, Escafil. They're blind, deaf, senseless slugs in their natural form, and they want to see, hear. Feel. Experience life in a way that their disabled, natural forms cannot.)

Escafil glanced back at his device. He could give them that. Without the expense of forced enslavement or all-out war.

(I thought Seerow's Kindness was what started the war in the first place,) Escafil said.

(Yes, but you do not surrender the things that define you just because of one unfortunate outcome.)

Escafil didn't know quite what she was referring to.

(You think the military will make the right decision with it?)

Cirell shrugged, grunting a little as she shifted her sore wing. (That's up to them, unfortunately.)

Escafil gulped, still staring at the wounded bird, wishing against all likelihood that one day, it would be Cirell again.

(Is this what you want, Cirell?)

(Yes, my love. It is what I want.)

Escafil winced at the epithet. After all he'd done to her, he had still managed not to break her heart.

(Then it is what I will do.)

He made the announcement later in the week. Fanfare, once again, for his scientific breakthrough. They would start manufacturing his device in bulk within the year. In the meantime, many of his colleagues shifted their focus to help him. Neffergil began working quite extensively with him. Sometimes she took her work home with her. Escafil did not mind delegating. His role as the sole bearer of blame was quite a heavy burden, and he was glad to have it diffused. Spread the acclaim, spread the blame.

It was nearly a year and a half since they began their work. Tlaxick's wife had given birth to a daughter, whom Tlaxick was kind enough to bring by the lab every once in a while. She was a curious little girl, and found a quick trust and fondness for Escafil. Sometimes Escafil's wife came by the lab, just to say hello, since he still did not find much time to go home. His sleep was still tainted by the memory of his ultimate failure, which still overshadowed all the glitches and malfunctions that appeared through the later stages of beta testing. Phrases like _hereth illnit_, _nothlit_, _frolis maneuver_, and _estreen_ became normal parts of the Andalite lexicon. Cirell gained a fair amount of notoriety and authority as the first Andalite trapped in morph. She was patient with all the different researchers who studied her, and as optimistic and forthright as she could be in interviews with the media. The people were entranced and sympathetic to her. She wrote a best-selling memoir which Escafil transcribed, even though the computer was more than capable of recognizing her thought-speech dictations.

The war had been on for nearly two years when Escafil received another call from the now-War Prince, Alloran-Semitur-Corass.

(You must resent me,) the young man said, eyes now heavy with the burden of war.

(Why do you say that?)

(I have turned your device into a weapon of mass destruction.)

(It was capable of that before it left my hands.)

(I still believe it will play a part in the outcome of the war,) Alloran said. (I still believe the consequences of your brilliance have not yet been completely unveiled.)

Escafil couldn't help but chuckle. (My lover a Kafit bird, my invention a weapon. So little good has come of this, I can only hope you're right.)

(Our work never means what we think it does,) Alloran said. (Our expectations are always foiled in the end.)

(Yes. They always are.)

* * *

It was over thirty years later. The war had been long and taxing, and though Escafil had not experienced it directly, its effects were plain everywhere on the homeworld. Friends and colleagues received urns of their loved ones, filled with the only residue from Dracon fire that could be scraped up. Population controls were relaxed for the sole purpose of breeding more soldiers. And that young War-Prince, one of the only Andalites who had used Escafil's technology to its fullest extent, had become a direct weapon of the Yeerks.

Escafil could only laugh at the irony. He was through with mourning his failures. Cirell had died after eight years in her Kafit body, and not from _Soola'_s disease, as she had planned. His wife had warded off terminal cancer through the use of his device for a few years, but death had eventually claimed her as well. Tlaxick's eldest daughter checked up on him occasionally, sometimes accompanied by her little sister, though Escafil mostly preferred solitude. He paid intermittent attention to the war, until news came from an exotic, far away planet called Earth.

Elfangor, a great hero who even Escafil had read a little about, had given his technology to five alien youths.

And they had most definitely foiled his expectations.

* * *

**A/N: Well, that's all she wrote. Thanks for sticking with me this long, everyone! I'd like to thank my regular reviewers--voodooqueen, birdie num num, metamorphstorm, and ember nickel**.** You've all directly influenced how this has turned out, so as far as I'm concerned, you're my co-authors. I hope you enjoyed it! It was a great pleasure to write, and some nice practice, at the very least. Keep your eyes peeled for more, I am definitely not done with this fandom just yet.**


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